A Beautiful Ride
A/N: Life is kind of funny sometimes. Last summer, after Vengeance, I got this idea for a OneShot, "Undeserving," seemingly out of nowhere. Today, while listening to a Gary Allan song with the lines "Life ain't always beautiful, but it's a beautiful ride," the idea for a companion piece came to my mind. If you haven't read "Undeserving," it doesn't really matter. This is not really a sequel, just a little something that goes along with that one.
Anyway - y'all know the drill - I don't own Trish or Dave. And I love reviews. Enjoy!
Throbbing knee. Aching neck. Stabbing headache. Burning shoulders. Wounded pride. Exhaustion taking over.
Everything hurts. From the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes, my body argues against every step I force it to take. The match wasn't that long, but it was longer than any I've had recently. And Mickie did nothing off the script, not even a stiff bump at the wrong moment. But my body is reminding me that I'm not used to going more than ten minutes with an experienced worker anymore.
And my mind is reeling. I knew this was coming. It was time for it to happen. I held the belt for over a year – quite frankly, I'm surprised I didn't lose it until now. But even though it was scripted, even though I knew, it's still hard to watch someone else walk out of the ring with my title. Especially at Wrestlemania.
As I walk toward the locker room, the questions set in again.
Should it hurt this much? Have I been at this too long? Is my body damaged beyond repair? Should I just hang it up and look for some other purpose in life? Will that nasty bruise on my ass ever heal? Do I ever get to rest? Does anyone know that I actually have more brains than a doorknob? Does anyone actually care that I'm more than a few athletic wrestling moves and some nice tits? Will I ever be trusted with that title again? How do I wash the sounds of their "boo"ing from my mind? Why do their "boo"s bother me so much anyway? Is all of my sacrifice really worth it?
I push the locker room door open, and even through my self-doubt, I smile. He's still injured, still out of action. Yet, he still manages to look like a movie star. He already shot his promo, but is still wearing his pinstriped dress pants and his baby blue shirt. The white collar of the shirt makes his caramel skin look a shade darker, and I can't help but lick my lips as I shut the door. Sometimes I can't believe how good he looks to me.
He is reclined, his legs parted as his arm rests casually over the back of the sofa. As I move slowly toward him, he says nothing, only opens his arms for me to join him. I climb into his lap and curl up against his chest, my face buried in the warmth of his skin, the intoxicating scent of his cologne rushing through me like a hit from a pipe.
When I am here, in his arms, I feel invincible. Sometimes I think I jump off the screen as some Supergirl/Wonderwoman combo, a woman who needs no one and fears nothing. He knows that is the furthest thing from the truth. When my last thread is about to unravel, he is always there to stitch me back together. I know he says that I'm his serenity– that he doesn't know what he would do without me to calm his nerves and put his feet back on the ground. But I'm not sure he realizes how often he has returned the favor and then some.
His chin rests on my head as he runs a hand gently over my skin. "How's the back?" His low, rumbling voice is like a balm to my aching muscles.
I want to tell him that it doesn't matter. Nothing matters when we're like this. When the room is quiet and he is holding me, no pain in the world matters to me. "It'll be fine," I assure him.
He doesn't press the issue. Though I know he worries about me, he has enough on his plate right now. With rehabbing his injury, training again, and fighting his way back to life inside the ring, he doesn't need to worry about a few cramps and bruises. I know that he is far more aware of my ailments than he admits, but his silence only tells me that he appreciates my need to, at the very least, pretend to be strong sometimes.
Pulling me closer to his chest, I feel the rumble of his laughter before the soft chuckle sounds from his lips. "You were amazing out there, Champ," he whispers.
With a heavy sigh, I shift in his arms and look into his eyes. "I'm not the champ anymore," I remind him pitifully.
He just shakes his head and pushes my sweaty hair behind my ears. I know that I'm a mess, with my running mascara and smudged lipstick. I'm sure I don't smell so sweet, either. But he kisses my cheek and wraps his massive arm over my body anyway. "You are to me."
I roll my eyes. He may be beautiful, supportive, and incredibly sexy, but he's a big dork sometimes, too. And even as I want to tell him it's corny, I can't form the words. He knows me, knows my doubts and my fears, and his words cause a flutter in the pit of my tummy regardless of how cheesey they may be.
"I don't know if I'm going to get it back," I tell him, voicing the fear for the first time.
My fans can shake their heads and scoff that I'm anywhere near done with my career. But the truth is that I'm 30 now. What is prime age for a man in this business is nearly over-the-hill for a woman. And while I agree that it's not fair, that I am in the best shape of my life on the outside, I would be lying if I said my body wasn't feeling the effects of five years of Widow's Peaks, Twists of Fate, suplexes, spine busters, Stratusfactions, MaTrishes, Chick Kicks, and every other blow I cushion or deliver.
With girls like Mickie, and even Ashley, coming along in their early to mid-twenties, the window of opportunity for Victoria, Lita, Torrie, and myself is always clouding over a little more. I don't want to let it go. I don't want to walk away. The fire still burns in my chest for the feeling of that gold over my shoulder. The shock in their voices when they say "That was a great Women's match" is worth all of the aches and pains and bruises and scratches I've endured put together.
But the look in Dave's eyes when he kisses me deeply and then pulls away to run a gentle thumb over my cheek is worth even more. The way he whispers "You don't need a belt to be a champion, Trisha," makes me believe his words. And the way he lifts me into his arms and secures my bag over his shoulder as we make our way to the car reminds me that a belt is nothing more than a piece of jewelry. A title is nothing more than another way of introducing us to the world.
I'm nearly asleep by the time we get to the hotel. And that's when I realize that he has, once again with very few words, managed to calm my body and soul completely. And now it is my turn to make sure that he is one hundred percent stratusfied.